


Light, like soft aeries above

by maplewoodmoth



Category: Jane Eyre - All Media Types, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, The Yellow Wallpaper - Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gay, F/F, I don't even LIKE this story why did I write this, Look it's historical lesbians I'm doing my best, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplewoodmoth/pseuds/maplewoodmoth
Summary: A happier ending, that both Bertha and Jane deserve. Been told by my friends that it’s a yellow wallpaper-esque vibes type story and I stand by that comment with pride.
Relationships: Jane Eyre/Bertha Mason
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Light, like soft aeries above

**Author's Note:**

> This was almost called ‘Baby light me on fire’ so take that how you will. 
> 
> Jane Eyre and Bertha are in lesbians with each other and burn down Rochester’s house and then run away to France to become Spinsters and run a Sewing Shop together

For some, dreaming about things with teeth should be a warning sign, not an idea.

Jane has never counted herself as someone who does what is conventional nor easy, and so when she ‘dreams’ of the wild haired woman who tears the bed drapes as if she is tearing at bars from inside a cage, she is curious enough to investigate.

Probably too curious for her own good, she is told, because good girls don’t ask, and good girls don’t question; they are quiet and dainty and all the things that should fit neatly into the box of wife-hood.

Jane is used to playing the part of a ‘good girl’ and she is tired of it. It has been too long since she has been curious and carefree for her own sake and not as some side effects of other people’s expectations of her. 

She has grown up cautious and constrained and doubting the goodness of people, because why would people be kind and good when they can be manipulative and greedy and get what they want instead? What does it matter of the little people when they are easily stomped on and surpassed to achieve some small momentary goal? 

Jane has grown up from her pessimistic childhood, and while she may present differently to others, she is always watching and always dubious. Everyone has their secrets, she knows, and she expects Rochester to be no different (not to the degree he does, she later finds. She berates herself later for being so foolish as to think that a man with Rochester’s demeanor and expectations could be any different- all men are alike, she has found, and Rochester is one of the worst). 

**

She starts subtle, as while she knows that outright asking might lead her towards the answer she seeks, Jane also knows that it may lead her towards depths of trouble. 

Jane starts by asking the workers, the people overlooked much like she is as a governess; the people who keep the house running and turning and churning while the master’s back is turned onto more important matters. Matters like throwing lavish and extravagant parties and making all the guests feel and look like fools. 

Jane feels herself heating up in rage at the memory, though everyone laughingly dismisses it as merely a woman’s emotions getting the better of her. Jane doesn’t forget though. She learned an important thing, after all. 

Rochester is good at pretending, especially, to be something or someone he is not.

She will not forget the next time. 

**

Jane investigates, and sticks to the shadows, because that is what she learned during her youth, and those lessons have yet to fail her. Rochester isn’t the only one good at playing pretend, she thinks wryly. She has always been deemed too small or too weak or too useless at anything to be considered a threat. At this point, Jane dismisses the possibility of becoming one. She has better things to do after all, such as sating her own curiosity, and teaching the young mistress of the house. 

Adéle is a sweet child, and Jane absolutely adores her. While she may be young, and her guardian absurd, none of it seems to touch her and her kindness is a thing that makes Jane weep some nights. Of course she has her moods and tempers, like any person, but she’s good in a way that so few adults are, and is a reminder to Jane why she chose to be a teacher. Children may be a handful, but they are always interesting and forthright in a way that is so refreshingly simple. 

Her caretaker on the other hand, is a prideful and opulent man, and Jane hopes that he and Blanche Ingram are very happy together. If Rochester is occupied with his new wife, then he’ll surely tire of tormenting her. Jane knows better than to hope for that, however. She’s experienced how family often is worse when banded together, though she yearns for her own. She remembers the Reeds, after all. 

**

The dreams continue, or at least the disturbances that Jane dismisses as dreams, continue. 

Then the fire happens, and it all goes clear out of Jane’s head. There’s curiosity a foot in this house, beyond even more of what she imagined. Even more than she has dreamed. The fact that Grace Poole is not fired is one of them. The fact that she’s still dreaming about a woman dancing throughout the wallpaper of her room is another. 

Grace is a nice enough woman, though secretive and harried in a way that Jane commiserates with. Whatever she’s doing in the upstairs corridors however, piques Jane’s curiosity in a way that so many things do. 

Rather than dismissing Grace as being facetious, she decides that she’ll start small. Befriending people who don’t want to be bothered is a talent that Jane has, though she rarely uses it. She understands the weight that people bear in despondency and misery of tireless working without thanks, and prays that her company will be enough. 

Grace, she finds, while secretive and full of starch, is welcome to a good cup of tea with honey, as well as the day’s latest gossip. Information for information is a bartering system she is well familiar with, and one Grace seems indebted to. Often, they find their news turning to Rochester, and when it does, they hear noises from the room behind Grace’s chair where her knitting lies. While Jane can feel curiosity dig it’s way deep into her bones, she ignores it for the sake of her conversations with Grace. It will be satiated, sooner or later. 

It pays off, eventually. 

** 

When it is, it’s unexpected, and not from the woman Jane expects. 

It’s a quiet night, the windows open, and the moonlight showing its stripes oddly against the yellow wallpaper that lines the room. The way it runs around the room almost makes the hidden shapes within its pattern twist and writhe and come alive. 

And with a breath, it seems like it does, the figure of a woman peeling her way out of the shadows and into reality. 

Bertha Mason comes into Jane’s life fully, in a way that she does so rarely these days. 

Quietly, full of caution, on soft feet that slip between and around locked doors and squeaky floorboards as easily as anything. And still so very filled to the brim with rage. She may be in one of her calmer moods, but as curious as she may be, Bertha is angry. 

There is silence in the stand off. Jane- on guard towards this woman who has slipped into her existence as if it were nothing, as if the shadows aren’t a part of her very being, as if the moonlight isn’t playing harsh and lined, across her features that are familiar and strained, and yet so foreign. The woman- restrained and aching to ask questions and to know, for once, what is the truth? There is violence and a deadly-dancer’s grace in her movements, as she paces in the silence, feet soft across the floorboards. 

“Why, might I be so privy as to ask, are you in my room?” Jane decides to open up with, words frank, and hands open, but expression guarded and tensed. 

“I might ask you the same thing.” the lady growls out, voice soft and tempered on a voice hoarse from screaming and lack of human words in so long. 

“Pardon?” Jane asks, taken aback at her words. 

“This is my room, or it was. Is. Was. I don’t know,” She waves a hand, “time is a fickle thing indeed. And days and nights pass in a blur. She” here she waves at the patterned and mustard yellow wallpaper, “kept me company. At least until he decided that our company wasn’t what he wanted.” 

“I come back here some nights to make sure they haven’t gotten rid of her. We keep each other good company, you see. Me and the woman in the wallpaper. We’re trapped together here, you see.” The senile woman laughs, a broken and wispy thing, and if Jane wasn’t so startled and tightly wound, she would feel remorse, but mostly, mostly she feels curiosity. 

“Just who ARE you?” Jane blurts out before she can help herself, and covers her mouth in something akin to horror as embarrassment creeps its way across her expression. 

The woman, named and nameless, looks at her with something akin to sadness in her face. “Nobody important now. Nobody /he’d/ want you to know about.” Her expression sours before clearing, “So of course I shall tell you! You may call me Bertha.” She curtsies neatly with a flippant and graceful twist of her feet and a flick of her wrist. 

“And you” she fixes Jane with a thousand yard stare, “are Jane.” Jane, furthermore, is speechless. And while slightly terrified, more than a little mystified. 

Instead of saying any of the things passing through her head however, Jane curtsies, succinct and neat and proper as a lady of her standing (or lack of) is meant to do. 

“A pleasure.” Jane says, face straight but for the wry grin she can’t help tugging at her lips. 

Bertha’s eyes narrow, but she nods and the two women lapse into silence once more.

Jane says nothing as she watches the now named Bertha, noting as her eyes flicker and race around the room, as if looking for something. No, following something. Perhaps, Jane muses, it is the moonlight she sees racing and lighting up the room. Maybe, she fantasizes, it might be the mysterious woman in the wallpaper she mentioned once before. Most-likely, Jane suspects, it is that the woman is clearly denied any outside stimulus and is merely curious about the changes that appear in the room she once claimed as her own. 

Jane breaks the silence by asking, instead of voicing any of her thoughts, if Bertha would fancy a walk with her outside in the gardens at this time?

She suspects that the woman has not been outside in a very long time when she spots the almost fearful look that crosses her expression. The bold posture withers for a moment as Bertha asks, in an equally small voice, “might that be a possibility?” Her fearful expression changes to a shrewd one in the blink of an eye, however, and Jane is left feeling as if she imagined the change in expression. 

She glares challengingly across the room at Jane as she rocks back on her heels, and Jane placatingly puts her hands up and says, “Yes I think it might indeed be possible. The man of the house is a heavy sleeper, and there is plenty of time before first light yet. I feel that we might have some time to ourselves before the rest of the house rouses.”

Still, as much as it pains Bertha to admit it, “No.” Bertha says, “not tonight. I have spent too long yet outside of my room, and as sound a sleeper as my minder is, she is prone to wakefulness when the birds first chirp due to the placement of the eaves. No, tonight will not do. Another night might. Don’t wait for me, I will come to you, and we will continue this conversation.” 

Before Bertha can slip away however, Jane throws up a hand and whispers frantically, “Wait! The room in the attic, the one guarded by the woman, Grace Poole, that is the room you speak of?” 

“The room I am trapped in, you mean.” Bertha snorts derisively. “But yes, that room is my cage; my tower and sanctuary. The bane of my existence and my haven from the man who put me there. We /will/ speak more. Just not now.” And with those final words, she slips silently out of the room. When Jane rushes to the door to check the hallway, it is empty, but for the flicker of moonlight and soundless footsteps that no one is awake to hear. 

**

Despite Bertha’s words warning against it, Jane still finds herself waiting up most nights, in the same place of her guardianship at the moonlit windowsill. Still waiting to see her midnight companion and find out more about her, to know what the woman knows of the master of the house. To know what secrets the manor of Thornfield holds. She feels a thrill in her chest at the thought of understanding more of this mystery. Jane squashes such an irrational thought, instead, and wonders instead about the woman, Bertha, herself. 

Her late nights standing vigil do not go unnoticed, however and many a worker of the house comments on her dreary and weary appearance, offering suggestions for improving appearance that Jane does her best to take with good grace. Blanche Ingram, since the woman refuses to stay at her own home apparently, is ignored with much aplomb and enthusiasm, as Jane concurrently does not have any cares for the woman’s snide comments about her less than stellar appearance. Rochester doesn’t say anything, just frowns at her. Jane ignores him as well. 

Life goes on. 

It is almost two weeks to the day when Bertha slips back into her life and room. 

The moon is just barely cresting the peak of the night sky, and as a new moon, it is dark and peaceful. With the only light flickering from the candles Jane has lit around her room, she almost doesn’t notice one extra shadow flitting across her room. Almost. 

“Come.” Bertha says, gesturing vaguely towards outside the room, “Watch your feet and muffle your breathing, you never know when they might be listening. The walls have ears and doors have eyes, and the floors whisper our secrets to any who might listen. They hold no loyalty, and so we had best be cautious.”

Jane follows without a word. 

Bertha doesn’t say anything to her until after they have left the confines of the house, and Jane doesn’t even have to prompt her this time. Bertha is as apparently as thirsty for companionship as Jane used, and is excited to spill her thoughts. 

But not yet. 

First, she turns to Jane, under the dark sky and asks her, “Why are you not afraid? Surely you know by now that I am not completely of sound mind and body, why have you been so kind? I hear and see things that no one else does, the voices of the house haunt me- why have you not reported me to the master of the house? He would surely see you rewarded.”

Ah, Jane thinks, this is why she waited so long before returning. It /was/ a test. 

“What and who I spend my free time with is none of Rochester’s business.” 

“And his business is yours to investigate?”

“I wasn’t aware you /were/ his business.” 

Bertha throws her head back and laughs, and Jane finds her gaze fixed on the way the starlight shivers across the slivers of skin revealed above her collar. She swallows thickly, and says, “Might I ask what you find so amusing?”

“I loved him once” Bertha grates out, something wistful in her voice. “He loved me too, I’d like to think. I don’t think that was enough, In the end.”

“You were close?” Jane asks, curious, as she leads them closer towards the gardens. 

“Close? We were married! He found my quirks and flaws funny, until they became too much for him to handle. Until they stopped being funny and became more of a nuisance. Fiction and reality are hard to distinguish between, for me, and I became prone to fits of delusion. He didn’t find it so amusing and cute when it occurred in public however. My brother did his best to warn me but I dismissed his warnings. Rochester is fanciful himself, I told him, and while harsh, he is anything but cruel.” Bertha laughs again, a weary and bitter thing. “I was wrong.”

And they are quiet as Jane soaks in the new knowledge and assimilates it. “Brother?” She asks quietly, instead. 

“My last name was Mason, you’ve probably met him.” Jane can feel her face twist with confusion and Bertha laughs again, softer this time. “Despite his warnings, he has done little to aid me in my situation. He visits occasionally, probably when his immortal soul gets too heavy with grief and the whispers of failure get to be too much.” 

“And how do you greet him?” Jane asks, softly curious. 

“With a knife.” Bertha doesn’t elaborate, though she seems amused with herself. 

And they continue walking. 

** 

Jane is cautious but curious and she keeps her midnight meetings with Bertha a secret. 

It doesn’t stop others from attempting to pry into her business, though. The questions she fences and deflects, the pointed statements she laughs off, and the helpful suggestions she dismisses. She has her own business, and it is her own, despite others intentions. 

Her business is her own, and so is her mind, and as it often does these days, she finds it turning towards Bertha Mason.

Jane has never known love, not in the normal way. Not in a way that hasn’t been fought for, hard and worn and splitting apart at the seams

She might’ve been once, at school. There was a girl, there usually is. So she might’ve but it was over before it began.

Now, however? For this woman, bitter and wronged and still so strong? Now? Jane never had a chance to withstand her affections for this stalwart and strange woman. 

**

Their midnight dalliances continue, and no one is any the wiser. 

They talk and laugh and plot, and one day, Jane is bold enough to suggest, to dare bring up, the idea that they could run away. 

“We are both unhappy here, under that man” Jane refuses to name him. “And we could just. Leave. There are other places in Europe that offer work.” During her plea, her hands find Bertha’s and Bertha stares down at her soft grip, fingers loose around her wrists. Hands that hold but don’t entrap; grip but don’t bruise. Hands that treat her as if she is something gentle and beloved. “No one would miss us.” 

“Oh.” Bertha breathes out, eyes wide as the moon reflecting in them. “Oh, yes. Yes please.” She breathes. 

And they embrace. Plotting under the perfect moon, and dreaming of a better and brighter tomorrow. 

**

Things rarely go as planned, Jane knows this. She /knows/ this. So when she is summoned to Rochester’s office, she is wary, but confused. 

Ready to run and fight; ready to run and hide; ready to run. She is ready, Jane thinks, for anything, except for this. 

“Pardon me, could you repeat that again?” She asks blankly. 

“Your hand in marriage” Rochester repeats boldly and slightly angrily. “I asked for your hand in marriage. I presume that you have felt the same connection that I have, that we are two lost souls adrift in the night, similar in their paths and destined to intertwine and meet. And so I ask for your hand in marriage and wait with bated breath for your agreement.”

“I know not of what connection you speak of,” Jane states, “and I feel as if you are sorely mistaken in your presumptions, Sir. May I be dismissed now?” And she slowly backs away. 

Even if she hadn’t known of the hand that he had in Bertha’s imprisonment and deteriorating mental health, Jane still feels that she would have said no, as he is a disturbing and presumptuous little man, who enjoys belittling and befouling others and their reputations. 

What she wants and thinks however, is of little concern to Rochester, who grabs at her arm roughly until Jane screams. 

“You will make no fool of me!” He says, “I have seen you making eyes at me, watching me, beguiling me with your charms! And now you mean to say that it is I who is the fool? No, you blasted woman, I know when I am being watched!”

“Let GO of me!” Jane shrieks, “If I was watching you, it was with condemnation- for I could never love a man such as yourself-” here she shrieks as he grasps her arm tighter and leans to snarl in her face. 

He stops however, when a ruckus in the hallway and yelling leads to him turning towards the door as it is flung open with a bang, a panting and enraged Bertha standing tall. 

“Let her go, you filthy little man.” Bertha grits out and Rochester, color draining from his face, complies. 

**

“I am not kind like my counterpart, like Jane. ” Bertha says lowly, “I am not patient, or quiet, or welcoming.”

“I am here whether you embrace me or not. I am here whether you acknowledge me or not. And oh, how so sweetly you refused to.”

“I am not meant to comfort and so I will not. Make what mistakes you have to make and pick yourself up again. Or don’t. I really couldn’t care less. Either way, one day you will fall and forget to pick yourself up again. And whether you want to believe it or not, I’ll be watching. It’s all my fault after all, isn’t it?”

Bertha laughs, throat rough and coughing and there is no pity in her gaze as she looks at Rochester. “You blamed me so long for your unhappiness, and I, you for mine. You thought that locking me away would solve everything but oh. Oh Rochester, my dearest nightmare. You only ensured that I would become the thing you feared the most.”

Part of Jane wants to reach out and comfort Rochester, smooth the tears from his horrified, stone still face. She would maybe, if she was a better person. But she is not, and neither is Bertha.

“Jane, my dearest” Rochester pleads, “will you not see the madness that overcomes both her and yourself, do not embrace it as /she/ does. Please, I beg of you, distance your gentle self from this monstrosity!”

Jane feels herself immediately harden at his words. “I am not gentle. And I will not hold you sweetly in the palm of my hand, nor will I caress the tears from your face, red and wry as it is. You have been careless and cruel, Rochester, and your mistakes are as many as the stars. There is no kindness in my heart towards the likes of you, as it is you who is the monster here; you who sought to control things and people beyond your power.” Jane’s chest is heaving and her throat is raw, her voice rising to a scream towards the ends as her anger is so great. “Begone you vile thing!” She screeches as if possessed. Bertha looks proud, and Jane finds that her hand has unknowingly sought out the comfort of holding Bertha’s own hand, clutching it as she finishes her tirade.

The house is silent with the ringing echo of her words. 

And Rochester? Rochester may not have paid attention toward her words, but her actions, he finally, finally, does not miss. He, sharp eyed, gazes at their clasped hands and says, “Truly, is this how it shall be? Is this what you have fallen to? Siding with my own personal demon against me?” He seems betrayed, Jane notes amusedly. As if the world revolves around him and it is displeasing him as most things do. As if this is a trivial thing to consider.

Well, she thinks, it shan’t be trivial any longer.

“We are leaving Rochester, whether you allow us to or not, we are leaving this place” Jane says.

Rochester grinds his teeth, face red with rage as he bellows “NO YOU SHALL NOT, IT IS NOT YOUR PLACE TO LEAVE, NOR IS IT IN YOUR CAPACITY TO!”

“If that be the case” Bertha roars out, back at him, “then we will leave by force”

“TRY ME” Rochester reaches out, fast as a viper and grabs Jane’s wrist with as much force as he can probably muster, which considering his stature and his rage, is quite a lot.

Jane wrestles and fights against his grip, hand leaving Bertha’s for a moment so she can claw at his face and scream like a bean sidhe wreaking havoc on his future.

In their grappling with each other, as Jane fights against Rochester’s attempt to overpower and subdue her, he forgets that it is not merely them alone in the room.

Jane is not so forgetful.

Bertha is a wrathful avenging figure as she screeches curse words in her native tongue, and english and french alike at Rochester and, flings a handful of flame into his face, candle wax melting and ravenging his eyes.

Screaming in pain, he drops Jane’s wrists to claw at his own eyes as he frantically scrubs at them, and in his moment of weakness Jane flees, tripping over her own feet to grasp onto Bertha’s open and waiting palm like a lifeline, like a choice, like freedom.

They flee.

**

“Adéle!” Jane whispers, “You have a choice to make now, and it is an important one, but first I am going to ask you a question.” Jane hasn’t let go of Bertha’s hand since they fled the room where Rochester had locked up Bertha, and locked the door with a chair under the handle. It will not hold for long, what with his shrieking and his strength, but it will hold for a time, long enough to buy Bertha and Jane enough room to escape. Leaving Bertha’s room and his shrieking behind feels surreal, as if it’s a painting too wet to be moved, yet melting nonetheless. 

They race through the shadows and towards the door, through the gardens and out of the house and onto the expanse of the grounds. Jane has a coin purse filled with her wages and her papers stuffed into her coat pockets, and Bertha is wearing heavy boots they nabbed from one of the spare rooms. 

But first, first Jane has a question to ask Adéle before they flee totally, and so it is into the garden by the old Linden tree that they find her. 

“Adéle, are you happy here?” Jane asks, and it is testament to the girl’s nerve that she doesn’t question their harried appearance, or the fact that Jane is holding hands with another woman, whose identity is unknown to her. 

“Adéle, please,” she lowers her voice. “Are you happy here? Truly?”

“With you I am, Miss Eyre,” Adéle says, “Are you leaving?” She asks, ever quick to pick up on clues. “Is that why the Mister was yelling earlier? Is this what you’ve been so worried about, these past weeks? Oh Miss, can I come with you?” Adéle surges to her feet suddenly, bouncing on her heels excitedly. “Please? Will it be an adventure? Oh Miss, I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure!”

Jane breathes out a sigh of relief and smiles warmly, still gripping Bertha’s hand tightly, but reaching out for Adéle to smooth her hair off of her forehead. “Oh sweet girl, I was supposed to ask you that. I know your time here has been difficult, as has mine, but it has been made brighter by your presence. I hoped sincerely that you might want to come with us, but I admit, I’ve been fearful to ask you these past few days lest I disrupt your happiness with my worrying.”

“Oh Miss Jane,” Adéle throws her arms as far around Jane’s middle as they can reach, “I’d like nothing more than to leave, but shall I gather my things? Have we time?” 

Just then, they hear a loud bellow from the house, where, if they look through the trees, they can see dark smoke billowing up and out of. 

“There is no time Adéle,” Jane confesses, “but I grabbed some of your things along with ours in hopes that you might accompany us. I admit, I was hopeful but we best move in haste towards the nearest train station, I fear the time we bought is running out soon.”

“Of course!” Adéle bubbles, “Oh but where are my manners, madam, I am known as Adéle.” She then beams at Bertha, who startles at being suddenly included. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you are good friends with Miss Jane, then I hope that we shall become just as close!”

Through this, Bertha has remained quiet, watching the interaction between the woman she knows and the girl she’s never been allowed to meet. Gently, carefully, she rasps out softly, “Hello little miss Adéle, I realise that I am a stranger to you, but I do hope we can be friends in the future as well. My name is Bertha, and Jane has told me much about you.”

Jane can’t help but smile, softly, through the grim situation, and clasping the hands of the two most dear to her, she chatters brightly and leads them onwards, hopefully towards a brighter future. 

**

I could never be allowed to have something so soft 

As her lips pulled pretty and petal pink 

Smiling at me. 

As her hands when she cups my face and gently-loving- tells me that yes yes, I am worth loving.

I could never be allowed that.

And yet? 

And yet. 

** 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway Jane and Bertha become spinster seamstresses in a little English town called Longbourne, where they live a quiet and peaceful life taking commissions for the ladies of the town. The townspeople look in the other direction if the two women look at each other with a lot more familiarity and softness than mere sisters, and if one of them frequently has to take to the back rooms when overwhelmed by stimulus and noise, well that’s none of their business if she has a weak constitution, she does excellent work anyway. Adéle is homeschooled and becomes a suffragette, who aids women in leaving their families and abusive husbands. All thanks to her two moms, Jane and Bertha.


End file.
